


personality.chr

by pandoracorn



Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, I'm so sorry please don't expect this from me but I'm just not doin so hot, MC is club president, Monika/MC is one-sided, No name for MC (hopefully if I start writing more DDLC fics I can... give him a name), Post-Canon, So much fuckign prose, They're all lesbian's harold, prose, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 11:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13810347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoracorn/pseuds/pandoracorn
Summary: so, um, hey - it’s me. again.--It’s life and love in the Literature Club - and that’s all they’ll ever know.





	personality.chr

**Author's Note:**

> hey i hate this game
> 
> it was high time i wrote for myself again and i really feel like shit tonight so i've done this Shitty Edgy Self INsert Thing with also my own AU about post-canon. if i can i'll write some of this au out if you wanna hear more bc i promise it isn't as edgy as this all the time. MC is just a fuckign EMO

He wasn’t a real person.

 

Of course, the protagonist had known this for a long time now. His final conversation with Monika - the Monika who was now long gone - had told him that much. He wasn’t real; he was the puppet of some higher being. And she was only interested in them. They were her beloved. Of course, that hurt his ego, and his pride, and made everything inside him ache with the greatest, fiery pain, not only because the girl he loved - no, admired, or maybe adored, he could never tell - had no interest in him, per se, but also knowing that he was never meant to be a person. No personality, no character, no face or name. Just a shell for some other being he didn’t know to insert themselves into. He was a vessel. He meant nothing. And he had never meant anything, not to any of these girls. These cute, amazing girls, that he watched die one by one, the scent of blood still fresh on his hands, though no one could smell it beside him (perhaps it was just guilt) and the images of death and dying burned into his head. Ropes and knives and coding and delete, delete this, de-

 

But now, this was all his.

 

Monika had ignored him, the entire time they spent in that room. She was talking to him… but also wasn’t. He found himself stuck, unable to move, under control of her beloved ‘player’ as if she was nothing but a game to him, talking about how none of her friends mattered (her voice shook at those words. She could never mean that, could she?) and they were nothing but scraps of code, just like herself. She talked about everything under the sun, all in that soft, honey-like voice that was so sweet now that it made him want to puke. And then, he was deleted, he was under the player’s control, as they deleted her file and he was forced to wrap his hands around her neck and watch her die slowly, corrupted under his fingertips and he cried and sobbed how sorry he was and how much he loved her. But she said nothing, until she  _ was _ nothing, and now the club was his, all his, and now he knew too much. He was the president of the Literature Club. And now he had it all. And it hurt him, the burning was worse now and all he could hear was colours and static that made him curl up into himself, now in the void that hadn’t been programmed yet.

 

The player had long since gone, relieving him of their control and creating a file just for him. MC.chr. Main Character. He was the main character. But what did that matter? All the love was scripted. His friendships and love was all part of a scripted code. Nothing was real. None of them were real. And yet, he was still compelled to bring their files back, still compelled to fix everything Monika had done to them, still compelled to bring even her back, not wanting her to suffer this heightened sense of unreality as much as she had done before. It wasn’t fair to her. Before the literature club, he knew her to be a strong, confident and an intelligent young woman. It wasn’t fair. None of this was far, not to a single one of them. And he wanted them to live the lives that they had deserved. He programmed them to all be part of the literature club already, Sayori as his club president (he missed her so much and didn’t want to see her leave again). He did everything he could to fix the girls he called his friends, and watched slowly as they became friends again, not knowing of the static in the back of his brain as liquid jealousy was filling up his lungs. Sayori loved him, but she loved Natsuki more, and Natsuki loved Yuri, and Yuri loved Monika, and Monika loved them all and smiled and laughed so beautifully he wanted nothing more than to reach out and kiss her, so soft and tenderly, but he knew she wasn’t programmed to like that - to like him. He wanted to change that, but distorting the files now could cause issues. He didn’t want to lose them again. Not ever.

 

Sometimes, he wondered what the player was doing. The game had been closed for months on their real-time clock, they had moved on now that the game was finished, had forgotten about all the pain they put these girls through - that they’d put  _ him _ through, for the sake of completion of another game on their Steam library. Every moment spent in a closed game was like agony, a splitting headache, just like the old Monika had told him about. He never let it show, not on purpose, but only when he let a wince or a holding of his head slip through the cracks of a pre-programmed snarky facade, he brushed it off, not wanting to worry his best friend before her double date. She waved goodbye and ran home, and despite himself, he smiled. Her depression was better now. He didn’t want her keeping a secret like that from him. She didn’t deserve to suffer like that.

 

No, only one person deserved this. And it was him.

 

He looked out of the window of the club room sometimes, long after class had ended, staring and wondering if he could program and endless loop of jumping off and hitting the ground over and over to fill in the hole of guilt, but out of sheer laziness, he couldn’t be bothered to figure out how. The sky was so pretty in the sunset, and he could see a pair of birds flying across the backdrop of the clouds, in love and happy and unaware of their technical mortality. He wished to be like those birds. He didn’t want this. But he needed to protect his friends. Their smiles meant everything to him. It was all he wanted to see. For the sake of them, he would hear the colours until he ended, and the loop started all over again.

 

For the sake of the literature club, he would fake a smile, a personality and ignorance for as long as it took.


End file.
